


Progression

by pipisafoat



Category: In Plain Sight
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-29
Updated: 2011-05-29
Packaged: 2017-10-19 21:05:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/205208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipisafoat/pseuds/pipisafoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marshall has a hard time figuring out exactly what Mary Shannon is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Progression

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: 1x04 [Trojan Horst]

**  
_3 Months_   
**

"I can't do this anymore."

Mary looked up from her computer. "Can't do what, your Sudoku?"

He shrugged. "Finished it a few minutes ago. It's you I can't do."

"Anymore."

"Anymore."

"You never were doing me. I tend to reserve that privilege for people I don't have to work with in the morning." She turned back to her work, flipped through a file, typed in the information she was looking for, and finally turned back to him. "Are you looking for a serious conversation? Fine. What is it about me you can't do anymore?"

He shrugged again. "Your drama. Your ability to take any situation and make it intolerable for everyone in the room. The way you expect me to clean up after you. The way I always do."

She laughed. "Sounds like a personal problem."

* * *

 **  
_10 Months_   
**

"Call The Weather Channel, because I need one of their fancy storm chaser cars," he muttered under his breath, getting in his truck to follow her to the mechanic.

"I heard that," she called over her shoulder. "And you're explaining just as soon as we get this damn car in Scott's hands!"

True to her word, when she took his keys out his hand and got behind his wheel, the first thing she said was, "Storm chaser car?" The second thing she said was, "Damn it, Marshall, when you know I'm driving, why don't you go ahead and move the seat up?"

"Because if I do that, my legs get stuck under the dash and I can't get out. Why don't you ever move it back when you're done?" He made a show of buckling his seatbelt. "You know, in some societies, the person who owns the car does the driving."

"Think of me as your chauffeur," she replied. "Storm chaser?"

Marshall shrugged. "I thought for a while you were a one-woman circus, but circuses are more entertaining and a little bit less terrifying. More clowns, too."

"I have plenty of clowns in my life. Hell, it's my job to take care of clowns."

"Clowns and murderers," he huffed, amused. "The perils of being a US Marshal. Too bad nobody warned me I'd end up with a tornado as a partner."

"A tornado?" She paused to consider. "I think that might be a compliment."

"At the very least, it explains how your hair always ends up all over the place after a situation." He leaned as far away from her as he could, but even pressed against the window, he was still in range of her fist.

* * *

 **  
_1 Year_   
**

"There's a trick to dealing with tornados," Marshall said, handing her a coffee. "I don't need the car with the video camera or anything."

She raised an eyebrow and took the drink from him.

"I just have to stay out of the whirling winds and nothing will get broken." Two creamers and three packs of sugar dropped onto her desk.

"And how exactly do you plan to stay out of my winds?" she asked, ripping open all three sugars at once. "Is this how you tell your partners you're quitting?"

He laughed and filched one of the creamers back. "No, this is how I tell you we're going to be best friends. It's safer in the eye of the tornado than it is to be anywhere outside. No telling which way the storm's going to blow, but it's always calm in the exact middle."

"Best friends, huh? And how do you plan to do that? You probably tipped the girl at the coffee shop just for pouring sludge in cups. Any friend of mine needs to know the value of money - or start tipping me when I do tricks like that."

"I'll tuck a Washington in your pocket every time you get me coffee," he replied. "It'll be at least a year before I lose two dollars."

* * *

 **  
_1 Year, 7 Months_   
**

_"Shit!"_

Mary put a hand over his mouth. "Shut up, idiot, they're still out there." She pinned him with a glare before removing her hand and crawling over to the door.

"You try shutting up with a broken wrist," he hissed at her. "Here, take my second weapon."

"I have my own," she whispered, "but thanks for the misplaced chivalry just the same. There's only three of them - are you as good left-handed as you say you are?"

"Better," he muttered darkly. "Give me a minute to breathe before calling a charge."

Her eyes slid over his slumped form, caught the way he was cradling his right wrist, and settled on pain-clouded eyes. "Damn it. You stay here. I can take care of them."

"Like hell you will. Nothing short of a sucking chest wound keeps me out of a gunfight my partner's going in. We're both safer if we stick together."

"Don't give me any of that eye-of-the-storm crap right now," she growled.

"I was headed more for the I-watch-your-back crap," he said, visibly pulling himself back together. "Alright, I'm good. Let's go. Disable only."

Three shots later and the three would-be terrorists were laid out on the floor of the bank, clutching at various injuries. Marshall kept his gun trained on them as Mary cleared their weapons from their reach, and a teller had the sense to call 911. Six hours and three X-rays later, Mary was laughing at her partner's unbroken wrist and driving him home.

"Stay?" he asked quietly as she unlocked the front door.

She paused, key still in the lock, and turned to him. "Why? You're fine."

"Not broken," he agreed, "but it'll still hurt like the end of the world when I wake up and grab reflexively for my Glock."

She pushed open the door and urged him inside. "And this is likely to happen in the middle of the night? More importantly, you think I'll do anything about it except yell at you to shut up and suck it up?"

He shrugged. "I'm still wired from gunplay. Won't come down until the morning. That's just the way it is; every little noise is going to make me jump. But with you here... I don't expect you to do anything. Just knowing you're here will help me sleep."

"Don't go getting all emotional on me," she warned, grabbing a beer from his fridge. "And none of this for you, painkiller boy."

"I'm not getting emotional." He leaned over her and pulled out a carton of Chinese. "I'm saying that even full of adrenaline and asleep, I know you'll shoot first and ask questions later."

She shrugged and fished a piece a chicken out of his food. "Why not. It's not like I want to go my own house, anyway."

Marshall grinned. "You know what? I think you just admitted that we're friends."

* * *

 **  
_2 Years_   
**

"You're really not a tornado," he told her as he took the cucumbers out of her salad and dumped them in his own. "Tornados don't get any weaker as they knock things down."

"Yes, they do," she said distractedly, taking a tomato from his plate. "They knock shit down and then get weak and die."

He nodded. "Alright. They get weaker as it happens, but not because of their destruction. It's actually the cooler air from the downdraft wrapping around the tornado that weakens it."

"So you think you're the cool air to my tornado?"

"Except for where I just said you _aren't_ a tornado." Marshall rolled his eyes. "Besides, the cold air chokes the tornado to death. I'd at least like to think I won't do that to you, literally or metaphorically."

"You don't seem to be." Mary looked up at him. "So what am I, if I'm not a tornado?"

He shrugged. "I haven't quite figured that out yet. Maybe you're a demon of some sort."

"Do I have horns or a tail?" she asked, patting the top of her head.

"So maybe you're more along the lines of Crowley than the typical demon. You like the world well enough, but you've still got to find ways to wreak havoc." Marshall shrugged. "Which makes me... God, I don't know."

"Aziraphale," she answered. "At least that explains all your random obscure knowledge. Collector of rare books?"

"Purveyor," he corrected. "If only the job came with wings."

* * *

 **  
_2 Years, 4 Months_   
**

"Complicated beverage?"

Marshall looked up from his files. "Only if it has way too much caffeine and even more sugar. I'll be here all night untangling this mess."

She set the cup beside him. "It's got a name a mile long. Must be good. What's going on to keep you here on Christmas Eve? Holidays seem big to you."

"Yeah, well, Candi Morrison is pregnant and didn't think to tell me until this afternoon. If I don't start this now..." He took a sip of the coffee and smiled. "Yeah, it's good, thanks. Did you tip?"

"Do you really need to ask that? How far along is she?"

He rolled his eyes. "And that is why I tip more than a normal person. Someone's got to make up for you." He sighed and moved one folder off another. "She's due in about two weeks."

"You didn't notice your witness suddenly having a huge belly and strange cravings?"

"I don't buy her groceries anymore. She's been in the program for almost a year now. Even has her own job and car."

"So what's the problem?" Mary leaned over his shoulder and scanned the file. "Testifying when the kid's due or something?"

"No, her court date isn't even set yet. They're still tracking down some of the gang members." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "She's planning to opt out as soon as she can."

Mary whistled low. "Double your pleasure, double your fun."

"Double this," he shot back. "Twins, and I have two weeks, over the holidays, to get together the paperwork to set them up for two identities each. Nobody wants to sign papers on Christmas."

"Twins? Hell." She stole a sip of his coffee. "I'll do one. Maybe between us, we'll get a decent night's sleep."

"It'd be better if you went home. Then only one of us is sleep-deprived."

She wheeled chair over and grabbed a file at random. "I can handle not sleeping. You, on the other hand, get shaky and sick with anything less than six hours. It's just self-preservation for me to make sure you get those six hours."

He smiled at her. "Maybe you're actually the angel in this friendship."

"Angel of Death, Destruction, and Doom," she laughed. "Not only do I not get a halo, but my wings have been ripped off and burned at the stake."

* * *

 **  
_2 Years, 10 Months_   
**

"You can be such a praying mantis sometimes," he remarked almost-casually over dinner.

"I don't always bite off their heads," she argued, inordinately pleased when Marshall flinched.

He swallowed hard and concentrated on not crossing his legs. "Praying mantises don't tend to, either, unless there's someone watching."

She set down her fork and looked at him. "You're saying I put on a show of being hostile, but when nobody's watching, I'm nice to men?"

He shrugged. "I don't really know what I'm saying. Besides, you don't touch them until after you've gotten what you want from them. The mantis bites off her mate's head before the deed is done."

"Hearsay. All of it." She cocked her head to one side and just looked at Marshall for a minute. "You've got to have another species in there that's female-dominated without casual murder. Especially murder during sex. That's just a waste. Lions?"

"Lots of monkeys," he added. "Actually, I'm going to have to go with hyena for you."

"Because you're so crazy I spend half my time laughing like one?"

"Because..." He paused. "I'll just let you research that one for yourself."

Mary shrugged. "Whatever tickles your pickle."

"One thing is for sure - you're some kind of wild animal." Marshall grinned and turned his attention back to his meal.

 **  
_2 Years, 11 Months_   
**

She sits down on the floor beside him in the old gas station. "So how come you didn't tell me?" The letter from Peterson Security flashes through both of their minds, and Marshall knows it's pointless to pretend he doesn't know what she means.

"Because I needed to make up my own mind, and that's not always an option with you." He pauses, almost shrugs. "You know how you are."

"I thought you loved this job."

"I did. I _do_."

"Well, what then? Tell me. Am I the reason you want to go? Because of how I am?"

He thinks quickly about his answer. Too much truth and it kills, not enough and it also kills. "No. It has more to do with how I am..."

"Oh my god," she mutters under her breath before turning back to him. "I can't believe I'm getting the 'it's not you, it's me' speech from you. Am I really the reason you want to leave the Marshal service?"

Wrong blend of truth and sugar-coating. "No... not exactly."

"Oh." She nods like she's figured it all out and looks away. "I wish they'd come already."

Marshall finds himself wishing rather strongly that they'd never come. Let them sit outside all night, let them still be sitting there when a rescue team comes to pull them out tomorrow. Just don't let them come in here, shooting to kill. At least, not until he's sorted out her confusion, though he also decides he isn't much of a fan of being turned into mincemeat by four experienced hitmen. "Look. It's nothing like what you think." His brain reminds him, insanely, that it is exactly like what she's thinking, that's just not the reason he was thinking about leaving. You don't abandon someone just because you love them, no matter what their feelings are for you.

"Yeah? Then you should probably explain, because I'm pretty confused. I know you love the job, and I thought you... I thought we were friends."

"We are. You're my best friend."

"Jesus, Marshall, you're like my only friend." He feels a swell of pride and possessiveness when she says this, has to remind himself that Mary Shannon is not the kind of girl who can be a possession.

"I know. And you're, like, my only friend." _You scared away all the others years ago,_ he doesn't say. She's worth the loss of a million others.

"So? Sounds like a pretty good arrangement. What's the problem?"

"The problem with us is..." He trails off, fights to catch his breath, suddenly notices that the water keeping him from breathing straight through his chest is turning red.

"Please just tell me." She hasn't seen it, and he knows he has to keep it that way. The second she thinks she has proof of him dying, she'll be off on a suicide mission, and the blood doesn't mean he's dying; it means he's still alive.

He swallows and starts talking, slowly, trying to prolong the rare moment of honesty, trying to keep her inside where it's relatively safe. "I feel like I'm the keeper of this exotic animal, and I spend my time either protecting you from the world or the world from you. And it's just... it's just a lot of responsibility."

She nods and shrugs apologetically, showing him that she might actually mean this. "I'm sorry, but that's your job."

He's about to point out that 'exotic animal keeper' is nowhere in his job description - though it might as well be, with some of the witnesses he has to deal with - but she turns toward him, puts a hand on the side of his neck, and kisses his cheek. A little noise escapes him despite his efforts to seem unfazed, but he doesn't think she notices. He's been breathing a little louder than normal ever since that bullet decided his lung would be a fun target. He remembers too late that she obviously knows how he feels, or at least suspects it, because how else would know just the right amount of hope to hand him so he stays? Anything less and it wouldn't be enough, anything more and he wouldn't believe it, and when she moves the thumb settled in his hair just a little bit, he feels his brain grind to a stop.

"And you cannot quit."

"Okay." He doesn't know what else he can possibly say.

Mary's eyes skitter off his face as though trying to avoid seeing too much emotion, and he groans inwardly as they land on the bloody bottle. Suicide mission is a go, he tells himself, and he's ashamed that he almost relishes the thought of her being willing to die, trying to save him.


End file.
